


Nobody Does it Better: a Bridget Jones Fic, Part 1 of 2

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Colin Firth - Freeform, F/M, References to Jane Austen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What better way for Mark and Bridget to spend their 10th wedding anniversary than at the annual jane Austen Festival in Bath?... One word of caution: Watch your step in Austenland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nobody Does it Better: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221  
Words: 11,174  
Rating: M  
Summary: What better way for Mark and Bridget to spend their 10th wedding anniversary than at the annual jane Austen Festival in Bath?... One word of caution: Watch your step in Austenland. 

  
This story is set 10 years after [Marrying Mr Darcy](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/11285.html), which I set post EOR film universe. If Mark and Bridget became engaged in 2004, they could easily have married in 2005, and thus their 10th anniversary might fall at roughly the same time as the 20th anniversary of the BBC's Pride and Prejudice. While I drew this timeline from the film universe, I couldn't help including Billy and Mabel. Any typos are mine, and do call me out on them.

Disclaimer: Not my characters, obvs. I've just borrowed them for my own amusement.

 

\---September, 2015---

  
It is a truth universally acknowledged that if ever the flames of love are in danger of dying, there is no better kindling than the magic of Jane Austen. Such had been Mark Darcy's original thought when he and Bridget had set out for Bath to spend the week of their tenth anniversary, rather appropriately, perhaps, at the annual Jane Austen Festival. Not that their marriage had been in any real danger, precisely, but the lapse of time, the demands of both of their careers, and the precarious juggling act of balancing their priorities with the responsibilities of raising two children had naturally filled out the contours of their lives in such a way as to sometimes leave little room for the tender intimacy they had once shared. Whirlwind passion had settled into comfortable companionship. Bedtime rituals of languorous lovemaking and whispered conversation between afterglow kisses had given way to discussions of negotiating morning meetings, court appearances, and business dinners around school runs and homework. Indeed, there were nights when Mark hardly remembered falling asleep only to be jarred awake the following morning to begin the process all over again, and yet, despite the seemingly lackluster life description, he had never been more contented.  
Not that things had been at all easy; the past year had brought with it particular challenges as Mark had resumed more regular international travel. Following his near-death experience in Sudan just over seven years since, he had initially avoided traveling further from London than he needed to. As the political situations in countries like Syria and the Ukraine had intersected with his work, the dangers of his position had become increasingly unavoidable. Much of the past year, Mark realized, had consisted of endless stretches of work occasionally interrupted by stolen weekends with Bridget and the children that flashed by in blurry snapshots of memory. His heart constricted with guilt as he recalled the last time, earlier that summer, that work had compelled him to leave his family—an absence of several weeks' duration that had necessitated postponing a family holiday. 

\---Flashback, two months previous---

  
Mark hurriedly packed the remainder of his belongings and prepared to go downstairs. Glancing at his watch, he smiled when he realized he had just time for one more cup of coffee with Bridget before he must leave. As he scanned the room in one last sweep to ensure he hadn't forgotten anything, Mark suddenly noticed Billy watching him from the open doorway, his expression unreadable in the shadowy, early morning light.  
"Hey, Superman. I didn't expect you'd be awake this early."  
"I wanted to see you off, to say goodbye before you left," Billy explained. Though Billy's voice remained steady, Mark imagined the flicker of unease in his son's eyes as he spoke and felt secretly glad that, in the dim light, he couldn't see it; he felt guilty enough without that look haunting him. Sighing, he went to his son and hugged him tightly.  
"I'm going to miss you," he whispered. "But I'll be back in a few weeks." Billy said nothing. "I'm sorry I've gone and spoiled our summer fun," Mark added, guessing the source of Billy's melancholy. "I'll make it up to you though, I promise."  
Billy shrugged. "It's not that, Dad," he said. "Really. We know your work is important."  
"What is it, then? Are you concerned about me going away?"  
"No, not really. I mean, we worry about you and stuff, but it's OK. I look after things here when you're gone."  
Mark ruffled his son's hair. "Of course you do, Superman, but really, now, what's bothering you?"  
Billy hesitated. "It's just… Mum—she worries about you when you’re away, a lot more than she lets us see, but I can tell. Sometimes when you're gone, I hear her moving around at night. Sometimes she'll go into Mabel's room, or my room, and just watch us. She thinks I'm asleep and don't see her, but I do." Mark remembered suddenly, during a hurried phone conversation with Bridget while he had been on one of his recent trips from home, her telling him that Billy had sometimes taken to crawling into bed with her in the middle of the night, complaining of nightmares.  
"Is that why you go into our room at night when I'm away?" His son nodded. "Billy," Mark said gently, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder, “have you really been having bad dreams?"  
"Sometimes," Billy admitted, "but sometimes I just think mum doesn't want to be alone." Mark wrapped his boy in his arms again and bent to kiss the top of his head, wondering at the same instant how much longer Billy would tolerate these affectionate gestures as he grew older. "Dad?" Billy pulled away and looked up at his father.  
"Yes?"  
"When you come home, maybe you should spend some time with Mum. I mean, I miss you a lot when you're not here, and so does Mabel, but I think—" he paused—"I think Mum needs you too."  
\----------  
Following that conversation with Billy, Mark had decided to take advantage of his approaching wedding anniversary to remind his wife—and himself—how much he valued his marriage, but as it often did, life intervened. Rather fittingly, perhaps, Bridget had been asked to attend the annual Jane Austen Festival in Bath to cover a series of special events planned to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the BBC's adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. Since the festival happened to fall during the week of their own tenth anniversary, Mark had made what might have been an unprecedented decision to clear his entire schedule for that week and accompany her. While the trip had hardly been a holiday thus far, with Bridget's work commitments, Mark allowed himself to indulge in a feeling of virtuousness for performing his role as a supportive husband. He supposed it was only adequate payment for all of the law council dinners and work-related events Bridget had dutifully attended with him over the years; however, he felt rather hemmed in by the ardent fanaticism of some of the Austenites that the festivities attracted. In particular, after encountering countless women with t-shirts, handbags, and other items of clothing and accessories bearing the legend "Looking for Mr Darcy," he felt compelled to look over his shoulder, expecting to see someone rushing toward him with an open copy of Austen's most famous novel, prepared to suck him into its pages like a bad horror film.  
With a yawn, Mark stretched and set aside the book that lay open in his lap, feeling guilty for retreating into his own mind. Glancing round the hotel room, he expected to find Bridget still seated across from him, bent over her laptop as she reviewed notes for the following day's shooting, only to discover that she had disappeared. As he furrowed his brow, wondering where she might have got to, a flash from her laptop screen drew his attention. Moving closer, he leaned over to examine the screen and smiled when he recognized the image that served as Bridget's screen-saver—a photo from their wedding reception on the lawn of the Chawton House Library. He gazed at the picture for several moments, reflexively reaching out to trace the curve of his wife's cheek with his fingertips, until he heard the sound of movement and running water in the bathroom. Upon going to investigate, he found Bridget standing before the mirror, appraising her reflection with a frown on her features.  
Mark allowed himself a moment to admire the soft curves of her hips and the delicate, rosy pink of her bare skin, for she had obviously just stepped from the shower and hadn’t yet proceeded to dress. "The view looks perfectly fine from this angle, in case you were wondering," Mark murmured at last, stepping behind and into Bridget's view. Startled, Bridget met his eyes in the glass before turning to face him. "I wondered where you'd got to," said Mark, reaching out to brush his fingers across her cheek.  
"I wondered whether you'd ever notice," she replied, assuming a light tone but fixing him with an icy stare.  
"I'm sorry, love," Mark apologized. "I didn't mean to become so absorbed in my thoughts, and in any case, I didn't want to disturb you."  
Bridget shrugged. "I know this isn't entirely a pleasure trip for me, but what's the point of having you along for the company if you aren't even going to talk to me?"  
"Well," said Mark, "to be fair, this wasn't precisely how I'd imagined us spending this week either, as seemingly fitting as the destination might be. I haven't any right to complain though, really. This is hardly even a taste of what my work schedule does to you and the children."  
"Oh, I see," Bridget scoffed, hands on her hips as she glared at him. "So this whole trip is just some form of penance so you can feel all saintly and virtuous for supporting me?"  
"Bridget, I didn't mean—oh, for Heaven's sake." Mark sighed. "This is ridiculous."  
"Why? Because you don't want to admit I'm right?" demanded Bridget.  
"No, because I can't argue with you when you're naked. I’m finding it a bit too distracting at the moment."  
Bridget blinked; then glanced down at herself. "Oh, I… um…" Reluctantly the corners of her mouth turned upwards. "I suppose I should… put something on."  
Mark smiled. "That might be wise, unless," he added, "you had something in particular in mind." As he pulled her into his arms, she rested her head against his shoulder and sighed.  
"Honestly, I'm not sure I have the energy."  
Mark held her for a moment, relishing her closeness, her damp hair tickling his cheek, and he ran his hands over her shoulders, her breasts, her back before, with a shuttering sigh, he stepped back. "Never mind," he said gently, kissing the top of her head. "Why don't you just rest for a bit; think about what you might like for dinner. I'll just have a quick shower." ‘A very, very cold one,' he added silently.

When he emerged ten minutes later, he found Bridget curled in the center of the bed, her hand cradling her cheek as she gazed out the window, an open copy of Northanger Abbey beside her. Mark smiled when he caught sight of the book, recalling how, during the two-and-a-half hour car trip, they had gotten onto the subject of Regency balls and public assemblies, and after wistfully quoting Henry Tilney’s observations about the country dance as an emblem of marriage, Bridget had expressed curiosity about what it might have been like to open a ball. Slipping in beside her, Mark brushed a strand of hair from her face and kissed the spot. Bridget snuggled against him, tucking her legs beneath her as he pulled her into his lap.  
"I'm sorry," she whispered, wrapping her arms around him. "I didn't mean to put you off. I'm just… a bit tired."  
"You've been working too hard," said Mark, tracing soothing circles across her back.  
"You should talk," replied Bridget.  
With a sigh, Mark leaned back against the pillows, drawing her close. "I know," he conceded. "You're right, but I'm here now."  
"Now I really do feel guilty for putting you off, when you go and say something like that,” murmured Bridget, resting her head against his shoulder.  
Mark tipped her face up to kiss her. "It's not too late to change your answer," he said, trailing his thumb along her collarbone.  
"Honestly," said Bridget, "it's not that I don't want to, I just…" she hesitated.  
"Bridget, what's wrong?" Mark asked, pulling back to examine her face.  
"It's nothing," she insisted. "Only—I just felt like—can you just hold me?" Billy's words suddenly came back to Mark: 'Sometimes I think Mum just doesn't want to be alone.'  
Smiling, he slid his arms more securely around her. "For as long as you need me to," he whispered. They lay there in contented silence until Bridget dropped off to sleep as Mark cradled her against his chest. Tenderly he stroked her hair, her cheek, her back, listening to her breathing, relishing the feel of her in his arms—the warm, comforting weight of her beside him, and chiding himself for how often, as time had passed, he had taken her presence for granted. Lulled by the steady rhythm of Bridget's breathing, Mark was just drifting off himself when her ringing mobile jolted them both awake. At first, he ignored the interruption, hoping Bridget would follow suit, but eventually she began to wiggle out from under his arm.  
"Leave it," he mumbled sleepily, pulling her back down beside him.  
"Mark, I can't," she protested. "It's probably something to do with work." With a resigned sigh, Mark rolled to his side, retrieved the offending noisemaker, and tossed it to Bridget.  
She smiled and snuggled back against him as she answered the call. "This is Bridget." There was a pause as she listened. "I have the notes for tomorrow. I just need to—what?" Pause. "What do you mean there's been a change?" Another pause, followed by what Mark could only have described as a squeak. "You… can't be serious. I couldn't possibly—he'd never agree to—how would I even—" Bridget's frantic stammering trailed into silence. Finally she said, “Yes, of course, but… does he, um, I mean—is he expecting… me?” In the pause that followed, Mark wondered just who 'he' was and what he had done to send Bridget into mild hysteria. If Mark had anything to say about it, 'he', whoever 'he' was, wouldn't be doing it again. "Well, at least he's been warned. Right. I’ll take care of it." As she ended the call, Bridget turned to Mark with an expression of wide-eyed panic. "My career is over!" she cried, flinging herself into his arms. "I'm completely fucked! I'll be the laughing stock of the entire country!"  
Suspecting this wasn't an appropriate moment to remind her of the fireman pole incident, Mark extricated himself from her hysterical stronghold and placed his hands on her shoulders.  
"Bridget, calm down. What's happened?"  
"There's been a change of plans, for tomorrow's program."  
"I gathered that much from your conversation," said Mark quietly. "But what's upset you?" Bridget began to tremble, and Mark became increasingly irritated with the unnamed individual who was responsible for upsetting her.  
"Well, remember when I told you I'd been asked to do a story on the years Austen spent here in Bath—just giving some background—at each of the lodgings where she spent time when she was here?" Mark nodded. "Well, I'm still doing that, but now—oh God, I can't do this!"  
"Bridget." Mark took her hands in his and looked directly into her eyes. "Listen to me. I'm sure you can handle any assignment you're given."  
"Not this!"  
"Sh, darling." Mark laid a finger over her lips. "None of that talk. I have complete faith in your abilities."  
"But—you don't understand, Mark!" Bridget nearly shrieked.  
"Apparently not. Be good enough to enlighten me, then."  
"Well, I'm still doing the background story, but there's also going to be a special segment on Pride and Prejudice, and I have to—" she gulped—"I have to—interview—"  
"Go on," Mark prompted.  
"Colin Firth."  
\----------  
Mark wove his way through the tea-room in the Jane Austen Center Museum, his eyes scanning the surrounding area for Bridget. He had spent much of the morning on his own while she had been occupied filming biographical segments at Jane Austen's various places of residence during her stays in Bath. After mistakenly deciding to use his time productively to check his work email, Mark had become entangled in a series of back-and-forth messages with Giles about a particularly involved case, and as a result, he arrived at 40 Gay Street only just in time to comply with Bridget's request for his presence during what she remained convinced would be the most disastrous interview in the history of television news. When he at last spotted her, the sparkle of laughter that lit her eyes surprised him as she chatted animatedly with someone whose back was to Mark. His surprise (and, perhaps shamefully, his jealousy) rose when Bridget's mystery conversation companion turned slightly, and Mark recognized Colin Firth. Mark had hoped he would arrive in time to be on hand for offering the requisite moral support, but it appeared that his services were no longer required. Scowling, he withdrew to a secluded corner to observe the proceedings. For a moment, Bridget's confidence wavered, and she took several deep breaths, glancing down at herself and smoothing away imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. As Mark watched in mingled curiosity and irritation, Colin bent to whisper something in her ear that had no business making her eyes shine that brightly, until her gaze shifted and rested for a moment on Mark.  
Slightly mollified as he saw her smile return, Mark sent her a quick wave. 'Inner poise,' he mouthed.  
"I'm here," began Bridget, "in the tea-room at 40 Gay Street in Bath, the location of the Jane Austen Center. We're just up the road from 25 Gay Street, where Austen lived during1805. Though she's been dead for nearly two centuries, Austen's legacy lives on in her six novels, made popular through a host of adapted works, and this year the Jane Austen Festival celebrates the twentieth anniversary of the BBC's wildly popular television miniseries of Pride and Prejudice, quite possibly Austen's most beloved novel. Here with me is the man whose portrayal of Mr Darcy is often credited with being largely responsible for plunging us into what has been since popularly dubbed the 'Jane Austen Film Phenomenon'. Allow me to introduce someone who likely needs no introduction—Colin firth. Colin, we're so glad you could join us today."  
"It's a pleasure," said Colin.  
"When you first took on the role of Mr Darcy, did you ever anticipate what an influential part you'd play in the cultural phenomenon surrounding Austen?"  
"Well, I don't think you ever really can anticipate these things," answered Colin. "Whenever I talk about Pride and Prejudice, I almost inevitably wind up reflecting on the rather—" he smirked—"unanticipated ripple effect it had, both within popular culture and my own career trajectory. I've always spoken candidly about my initial disinterest for the role, and the later realization, after reading the script, that I'd actually have been quite jealous if anyone else got the part. I don't know if I was somehow anticipating what an iconic film character Darcy would become, and in retrospect, we can't really speculate on what might otherwise have happened if I hadn't taken the part, but as Austen herself might have said, that does not signify."  
"When we look at your body of work, so much of it is literary adaptation. I wonder if you'd talk a bit about how your process in preparing for a role in a literary adaptation might differ from some of your other work."  
"As an actor, you have a commitment to render a character as authentically as possible, and with literary adaptation, and nineteenth-century adaptation in particular, the task is especially challenging because you're up against a long history of images in the popular imagination. In the case of Darcy, not only did I have previous portrayals like Laurence Olivier to contend with, but whatever image of Mr Darcy readers had been carrying around in their minds since Austen created him, so my object was twofold: I wanted to remain true enough to the text to make my character authentically recognizable as Austen's Darcy, but I also had to keep in mind that acting a character in an adaptation of a novel is a form of literary analysis, so in order to make Darcy truly my character, I had to find an access point into his mind through some element of his personality that resonated with me."  
"And for you, what was that element?" asked Bridget.  
"I think the key to understanding Darcy lies in recognizing his imperfections; as readers, we can very easily allow ourselves to get caught up in the romance of it all, so at the end of the story, Darcy very often emerges as this noble, selfless hero, but in fact, that's quite far from the truth. I wanted to underscore the fact that Darcy is a man whose actions are very often motivated by self-interest; he is, as he admits himself, a selfish being. If his love for Elizabeth Bennet is one of his redeeming qualities, it still doesn't magically transform him. Through Elizabeth, he recognizes his potential for self-improvement, but even at the end of the novel, that self-improvement is still very much a work in progress, as it is for all of us, really. I think Elizabeth sums it up perfectly when she says that in essentials, he is very much what he ever was; his mind or his manners aren't in a state of improvement, but in knowing him better, his disposition is better understood. I think, in retrospect, that passage stands as a sort of guiding principle for the way I approached Darcy."  
"What do you think of some of the recent retellings of Austen—Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, for instance?"  
Colin shrugged. "I think inevitably anything as enduring as Austen's work is going to be subjected to some type of rescaffolding to capitalize on whatever trend is selling, and I'd venture to say that Austen would probably find such reinventions amusing, because they offer insight into social and cultural trends in a way that, perhaps, isn't terribly far removed from the kind of satirical social commentary she used to frame her work."  
"I'm curious," said Bridget. "Could you fancy yourself defending the English countryside against zombie attacks?"  
"I… can't say I've ever considered it, no," Colin replied delicately.  
Bridget smiled at the camera. "And on that note, that's all we have time for. Back to the studio."

\----------  
"Mark!" Bridget flew across the room and nearly catapulted herself into his arms. "Where were you? I thought you'd be here earlier—but you made it. I'm so glad!" As she hugged him, Mark's lingering jealousy began to melt in the warmth of her embrace.  
"You were fantastic, darling," he murmured, bending to kiss her. "I'm so proud of you."  
Bridget beamed. "I wondered whether you'd got lost, or if something had happened, but come with me." Grabbing Mark's hand, Bridget practically dragged him across the tea-room toward the man whose name, not twenty-four hours before, had left her trembling in fear.  
Noticing their approach, Colin came toward them, pressing Bridget's hand between both of his own. "Well done, Bridget. That went off rather well."  
"Better than the last time, you mean?" asked Bridget, blushing.  
Colin offered her a warm smile; then turned to Mark. "Forgive me," he said politely. "I don't believe we've been introduced."  
"Oh!" exclaimed Bridget. "I completely forgot! Mark, Colin Firth; Colin, my husband, Mark Darcy."  
Colin extended a hand, which Mark shook, intensely feeling all the awkwardness of his situation. "Bridget has told me all about you. I understand you're celebrating an anniversary. Allow me to offer my congratulations."  
"I—thank you," replied Mark, reaching instinctively for Bridget's hand, as much to ground himself in reality as to display affection; could he truly be having this conversation?  
Colin smiled. "I'm glad you're here, actually." When Mark's expression apparently registered the perplexity he felt, Colin gestured toward the window that offered a clear view of the street packed with Austenites. "If any of them come looking for Mr Darcy, I'll know where to send them."  
"Not if I have anything to say about it," laughed Bridget, linking her arm through Mark's.  
"Aren't you the lucky one, then,” said Colin.  
"Have you been managing to survive all of this insanity?" asked Bridget, addressing Colin with a casual, conversational air that Mark had to admit impressed as much as it irritated him to observe.  
Colin shrugged. "It's all part of the job description, and to be completely honest, it's far from torturous."  
"You're sure you aren't just saying that?" asked Bridget, a teasing sparkle in her eyes.  
"I'm not," said Colin. "It's actually rather gratifying at this stage in my life to have been a part of something with such enduring popularity. Besides, “he added, "it could be much worse; they haven't turned me into a vampire yet."  
"Oh, but they have!" exclaimed Bridget.  
Colin arched a brow. "I strongly suspect I'm going to regret this, but would you care to elaborate? The zombies I'm aware of, but… vampires?"  
"Mr Darcy, Vampyre," said Bridget.  
"No."  
"Yes."  
"You can't possibly be serious." His curiosity apparently aroused, Colin withdrew his mobile from his pocket and searched for the offending title. "I stand corrected," he said at last. "It does in fact exist, and I take it you've read this imaginative work of fanfiction?"  
Bridget blushed. "I—that is—um—"  
"She has," Mark supplied, earning himself a glare from his wife.  
"Should I even ask what the story involves?" inquired Colin.  
"Mr Darcy… he's a vampire," answered Bridget, her cheeks still pink.  
"I surmised as much," said Colin.  
"And Lizzie doesn't know he's a vampire," continued Bridget, seeming to have lost control of her tongue. "So when they get married, and Darcy doesn't, you know, go to her… at night, she…"  
Colin held up a hand, but he was smiling. "You have said quite enough, madam."  
Bridget gave a nervous giggle. "Well, you asked."  
"I did," agreed Colin. "I take full responsibility." Glancing down at his watch, he frowned. "I think my presence is required elsewhere, shortly," he said apologetically. "Something to do with a lecture on gentlemen's attire and a cravat-tying demonstration."  
"Do you actually know how to tie a cravat?" asked Bridget.  
"I haven't the slightest idea," admitted Colin. He pressed Bridget's hand warmly; then Mark's. "Lovely to see you again, Bridget, and Mark, it's been a pleasure."  
With a frown, Bridget watched him stride away before rounding on Mark. "Was that really necessary?" she hissed.  
Mark drew an arm around her and pulled her to him. "What? You mean about the book? Yes, I'm afraid I couldn't help myself, but I didn't mean to upset you," he murmured, kissing the top of her head. "But," he added, his eyes twinkling, "I only spoke the truth."  
"Yes, but you didn't have to mention it in front of him," Bridget huffed.  
"Come now, Bridget. Do you honestly think he'd have believed you if you'd said you hadn't read it, particularly when it was so obvious from the look on your face that you had?"  
"That's not the point, Mark. I looked absolutely ridiculous."  
"Bridget, you looked like yourself."  
"Oh, I see." Bridget rested a hand on her hip, her eyes flashing. "So you think I'm ridiculous?"  
Mark sighed. "Of course not, Bridget. I only meant—" his explanation was cut short by the sound of his wife's name being called.  
"Oh, shit!" Exclaimed Bridget. "I forgot—meeting. Just to, you know, wrap things up." She hesitated, her eyes downcast. "I'm sorry," she whispered finally. "I don't know what's got into me." When Mark didn't reply, she slipped her arms around him and raised herself on tiptoe to peck his cheek. "I'll catch up with you in a bit," she said softly, giving him a quick squeeze before rushing off.  
\----------  
Mark took a swallow of his beer and stared down into his glass as if searching for the answer to his current predicament in its depths. Around him, the murmuring of voices in quiet conversation contrasted blissfully with the cacophony of noise from the street outside; anticipating the larger than usual crowd at the festival this year, one of the local establishments had generously set aside a back room where anyone connected with working the festival, including members of the Pride and Prejudice cast, might seek refuge. Bridget, as press, had access to this refuge, as did Mark, much to his relief.  
Sighing, Mark took another sip of his drink and thought how much his surroundings and the events of the past several days had once again served to remind him that he was hardly the hero of romance Bridget seemed to have spent much of her life fantasizing about prior to their relationship—not that she expected him to be, or did she? Mark didn't exactly consider himself unromantic, but demonstrative gestures of affection had never come naturally to him—something he still had to work hard at sometimes. He'd thought at the time that accompanying her through Austenland this week might rekindle their romance, but thus far, such had not proven true. He needed to change that, Mark new, and he had only a few remaining days to accomplish his task.  
"Just my luck," said a pleasant voice at Mark's elbow. "I seek refuge here hoping to escape the Darcy madness for a few moments, and who should I run into? It's Mark, isn't it?"  
Glancing up, Mark found Colin Firth standing opposite him, the corners of his mouth just turning up in a smile. "I—yes, yes it is," he answered, reflexively offering a hand, which Colin shook warmly.  
"I hope I'm not intruding."  
"On the contrary," replied Mark, "it's a relief to have another man to talk to."  
"Well then," said Colin, "if you wouldn't mind the company, I'd be glad to join you."  
Mark considered the suggestion; reserved and withdrawn though he generally was, he felt surprisingly at ease with this relative stranger. "Please do," he said finally.  
"You look a bit lost," observed Colin after both men had supplied themselves with drinks.  
"I do feel rather out of place, yes," Mark admitted. "This is more Bridget's territory than mine. All of this—"he gestured at his surroundings—"is a wonderful tribute to Austen, I suppose, but I didn't think it would be quite so… mad."  
Colin chuckled. "Yes, the scene at these types of events is usually some form of controlled chaos."  
"I must confess, I hadn't ever read Austen until I became involved with Bridget, but once I did, and once I got past the idea of it all just being romantic nonsense, I had to give her credit for being such a witty social commentator."  
Colin nodded. "She drew the world as she saw it, with all its beauties and its imperfections."  
"I do have to agree with you about Darcy though," said Mark. "He really is a selfish bastard. I never really did understand the appeal, and yet I always seem to feel like I'm competing with him on some level."  
"You're not the only one, I'd imagine," said Colin. "You know, I once heard a story about a woman who somehow Photoshopped me—as Mr Darcy—into one of her wedding pictures." Mark groaned. "I don't even recall now how I came to hear about it," Colin continued, "or why someone decided to share this information with me; was I supposed to feel flattered? Because I think my first response was concern about whether or not I should write to the groom and apologize to the poor chap."  
"And that's what makes it all so ridiculous, from where I'm standing," said Mark. "I suppose, in a way, I'm to blame for that—for thinking that I had to compete with this fictional, romanticized, heroic figure whom I could never really measure up to, because I'm not Mr Darcy."  
"Well," Colin smirked. "You are, technically, but I think I understand what you mean."  
"I'm not **that** Mr Darcy, any more than you are, but—" Mark paused, took a fortifying swallow of beer, and continued, "you made it look so… effortless."  
"That," replied Colin, "is because Mr Darcy doesn't really do anything. I mean, he strides around and scowls at people and occasionally condescends to add his sarcastic remarks to the conversation, but that's about all he does."  
"But that's just the point," said Mark. Perhaps the alcohol had loosened his tongue, or perhaps coming face-to-face with the man who he had always, without consciously acknowledging it, viewed as the embodiment of his fictional rival, had excavated all of his insecurities. Whatever the case, Mark felt the anger and jealousy, irrational though they were, beginning to set his blood boiling again. “You managed to sell that as something desirable, something women are supposed to want. You gave Mr Darcy this whole—I don't know—sexual dimension, and then I—and all those other blokes being cut out of their own wedding photos—have to compete with it."  
"Well," Colin replied calmly, "I'm hardly going to apologize for doing my job." The fact that he could sit there, maintaining his composure, irritated Mark even further.  
"That's not the—of course you—" he stammered. "I wasn't suggesting—"  
Colin arched a brow. "Weren't you, though?" Mark glared at him, noticing with some satisfaction the flicker of annoyance in the expression of polite indifference Colin endeavored to maintain. They met one another's gazes for several awkward moments, and then, all at once, they were laughing like a pair of schoolboys.  
"God, I'm sorry," Mark said when he had found his voice again. "I've no idea where that came from."  
"I think you were channeling half the men in England," answered Colin, still chuckling. "Still, if Bridget finds out—" Mark frowned. "God, I've been an idiot."  
"You may rely upon my secrecy," Colin said solemnly, raising his glass and clinking it against Mark's in a toast. Leaning back in his seat, Colin took a slow sip of his beer, scrutinizing Mark over the rim of his glass before speaking again. "You know," he said at last, "I had an opportunity to chat with Bridget earlier today—before the interview. I couldn't help remembering—" he hesitated.  
"What happened the last time she spoke to you?" Mark supplied.  
Colin nodded, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. "I thought, if we just chatted for a bit, about normal things, it might put her at ease."  
"That was a perceptive move on your part," said Mark. "Bridget is actually quite good at what she does, far more so than she thinks she is; she just needs to work more on… positive thought vibes."  
"I could see that," said Colin. "She's really quite engaging when she's on form."  
Mark smiled. "I'll be sure to tell her you said that. The complement would mean quite a lot, coming from you."  
"Please do," said Colin. "But that wasn't my point. The thing is, Mark—" he hesitated, frowning as he considered how to continue. "Perhaps it's not my place to say."  
Mark studied the man seated across from him—at those deep, brown eyes fixed on him with a look of such kindness and understanding—and he felt as if he were gazing into the eyes of an old friend. "No, please go on," he urged. "It's odd, but I don't feel at all as if I'm talking to a stranger."  
"Well," Colin continued, taking another sip of his drink, "Bridget told me a lot about you: about your work, about your family; she's quite proud of you, you know."  
"Funny, because I don't feel I've done much to deserve that distinction lately," murmured Mark.  
"Bridget obviously thinks otherwise," Colin said quietly. "My point is, you needn't try so hard, Mark. It's pretty clear she loves you just as you are."  
Mark sighed. "I know she does," he admitted, "but I still worry sometimes, even after so many years, that she might think I take that for granted; I'm still not the most demonstratively affectionate man on the planet."  
Colin laughed at this. "This from the man who willingly accompanies his wife to a Jane Austen festival to celebrate their anniversary, not to mention," he added, "the man who arranged to have your wedding at Chawton House."  
Mark felt a blush creep up his neck. "Bridget… told you about that?"  
"She did, and, from one man to another, I must give you credit."  
"Well, I… have my moments, I suppose," Mark conceded. "I'd hoped I might be inspired by the mood here to come up with some grand romantic gesture to rival that, but I think it's going to be nearly impossible to outdo myself."  
"Perhaps, unless…" Colin rested his chin in his hands, thinking. "Wait," he said at last, a sudden gleam in his eye. "I have a plan." 


	2. Nobody Does it Better: a Bridget Jones Fic, Part 2 of 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See [Part 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/13168.html)

Nobody Does it Better: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221  
Words: 11,174  
Rating: M  
Summary: See [Part 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/13168.html)  


A/U: as usual, errors/typos are mine. Apologies if I missed any in the editing and formatting.  


Mark examined his reflection in the mirror, frowning as he endeavored to readjust his neck cloth. As he stood back to consider the effect, he admitted with some reluctance that the Regency costume he had obtained for the masquerade ball suited him far more than he had expected it would, though he could have done with a bit less lace and ruffle he thought as he scowled down at the cuffs of his sleeves. With a resigned sigh, he reached for the pair of white gloves that lay on the dressing-table, begrudgingly admiring how perfectly the pearl fastenings matched the button at his collar.  
"I think I quite like this look for you," Came Bridget's voice. "The breeches suit you, Mark. And did you order that scowl to match the outfit? Because you look more like Mr Darcy than ever." Mark turned to face his wife, but as he opened his lips to reply, the words became caught on the lump in his throat. The pale pink satin gown set off her rosy complexion and the bright blue of her eyes; she had swept her hair into an elegant twist anchored with a silver comb, and a pair of white, kid gloves reached her elbows. Reverently Mark reached out to touch the delicate, rosebud overlay that covered the gown.  
"If you look this beautiful every day," he said finally, "clearly I haven't taken the time to notice."  
Bridget blushed. "And I haven't even finished getting ready," she giggled.  
Apparently not even a decade of marriage had succeeded in unraveling the mysteries of the female preening ritual to Mark, because he couldn't imagine what further alterations were required.  
"You look absolutely perfect, darling," he protested.  
"You're sweet, Mark, but I'm afraid there's a slight problem… with my gown." Mark looked at the garment; it appeared perfect, accenting the soft curves of Bridget's form flatteringly. Bridget nodded and turned her back to him, casting a wicked smile over her shoulder as she did.  
"Oh, I—yes, I see the problem now," said Mark, noticing for the first time the pearl fastenings at the back of the gown that any lady would have to have been a contortionist to have done up independently.  
"Since I'm not fortunate enough to have a lady's maid, I wonder if you'd be so kind," inquired Bridget. Reaching to do up the fastenings, Mark felt grateful for the gloves that currently kept him from coming into contact with Bridget's bare skin as his hands traveled up her back; had he risked even the slightest brush of fingertips, he suspected that fastening her gown would have been quickly abandoned in favor of another task.  
Bridget must have read his mind, for as she turned to face him, she flashed him another wicked grin before observing, "You realize you're going to have to help me off with this later, don't you?"  
Mark smiled. "I look forward to the pleasure." Unable to resist, he slipped her into his arms and bent his head to kiss her. "Happy anniversary, darling," he whispered.  
"Oh!" Bridget squealed, wiggling from his grasp. "I almost forgot!" Hurrying across the room, she rummaged through her suitcase for several moments, returning with a gift-wrapped box that she placed in Mark's hands. "Open it!" she gushed, bouncing on the balls of her feet in her anticipation. Smiling at her excitement, Mark pealed back the wrapping to reveal a crushed-velvet jeweler's box; nestled inside lay a pair of monogrammed, diamond cufflinks.  
"These are exquisite, Bridget," he murmured, lifting them gently from their case to admire the simple elegance of the craftsmanship. "I love them. Thank you."  
"You're welcome." Bridget rose on her toes to peck his cheek. As she drew back, Mark slipped his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat for the similarly-wrapped package he had concealed there. He smiled as he watched her tear away the wrapping and lift the lid of the jeweler's box to reveal the heart-shaped, diamond locket inside.  
"Oh, Mark!"  
"Wait, there's more." Taking the trinket from her hand, Mark touched the spring that opened it; one side displayed a picture of the two of them; on the other—  
"There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," murmured Bridget, reading the inscription aloud, her eyes shining with tears. "Jane Austen. Mark, it's absolutely perfect."  
Mark shrugged. "Actually, not quite," he replied. Gently he fastened the chain around her neck and stepped back to admire the effect; just the right length, he decided, falling just above her cleavage. "Now it's perfect."  
Bridget slid her arms around him and kissed him deeply. "I love you, Mark."  
"I love you too, Bridget." Glancing at his watch, he drew her arm through his. "Come along then, Mrs Darcy; I believe we have a ball to attend."

Mark and Bridget entered the ballroom amid clouds of lace, taffeta, and satin. With Bridget's hand tucked securely in the crook of his arm, he scanned the crowd of masked attendees. He didn't expect he'd easily find who he was looking for, but he had been assured that all was adequately arranged. If everything went off as planned, Mark would certainly have to find the person responsible and offer his thanks. As the room buzzed with anticipation, Mark took Bridget's hand—endeavoring to still the slight tremor of nerves in his own—and guided her toward the section of the floor designated for dancing.  
"Mark," Bridget hissed in his ear. "We can't. The guests of honor usually have to formally open the dancing."  
Mark smiled. "Yes, you're right. We do."  
Bridget blinked; then stared at him. He had planned this perfectly, he decided; much as he sometimes felt guilty for toying with her, he always savored the expression of wonderment that lit her face as realization dawned. It had always been, for him, by far the sweetest thing about surprising his wife.  
"Mark, you can't mean—you don't mean—us?"  
He nodded. Before Bridget could respond, he drew her into the steps of the dance as the music began. "It's lucky we decided to attend those ballroom dancing workshops," he observed.  
Bridget giggled. "How did you manage this, Mark?"  
"That's my secret, I'm afraid," said Mark. "But you did wonder what it might be like to open a ball, and this seemed a perfect opportunity to satisfy your curiosity."

Some time later, as Mark wove through the crowd with a glass of wine for Bridget, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder, and turning round, he smiled; from a distance, the mask that shielded the upper portion of the man's face might have disguised him in the crowd, but up close, he could still be recognizable.  
"I wondered if I might see you," said Mark. "I wanted to thank you."  
"I've been endeavoring to take advantage of some small degree of anonymity," replied Colin, "but I was watching. Well done, Mark."  
Mark smiled. "Thank you. Will you come and say hello to Bridget?"  
"You haven't told her, have you?" asked Colin as the pair of them navigated the throng.  
"No, but it seems rather unfair to take all of the credit myself."  
"I'd prefer it," said Colin, "although, " he added with a chuckle, "I have an odd feeling Bridget will manage to drag it out of you somehow." Mark joined in his laughter.  
"Mark, there you are. I was wondering where you'd—" Bridget's voice trailed off when her gaze fell on Colin, and the flicker of recognition in her eyes brightened when he gallantly raised her gloved fingers to his lips.  
"I wanted to complement you on your dancing, Mrs Darcy," he said, beaming down at her.  
"Oh, I—thank you," answered Bridget, clearly flustered. "I'd have thought you'd be opening the dancing, though," she added with a playful smile.  
"There seemed no need," said Colin, "when we have the pleasure of being graced with a real Mr and Mrs Darcy."  
"Wait a minute." Bridget's gaze shifted to Mark, then back to Colin. "You arranged that, didn't you?" she whispered.  
Colin glanced at Mark; then gave a resigned shrug. "I might have had a hand in it, yes," he admitted.  
Bridget's eyes widened in surprise. "You—you did that… for us?"  
"It wasn't so much my doing as a lucky coincidence," said Colin simply. "I'd rather not say more, but I was happy to have been able to help.”  
“Well, whatever it was, thank you,” said Bridget. “Even if married couples didn't often dance together in Austen's time,” she added with a laugh.  
Colin smiled. “I think, in this instance, Miss Austen would make an exception.” He paused, glanced at Mark, then added, “But if you have some concerns about partnering your husband, I would be very happy if you would do me the honor of dancing with me, Mrs Darcy.”  
Bridget blushed and lowered her eyes. “You don’t want to dance with me,” she murmured. “I’ll make you look ridiculous.”

Suspecting the real reason behind her excuse, Mark reached out and rested a hand on the small of her back. “Go on, love,” he told her. “I think you’ve earned it.”  
Bridget hesitated. “Mark, are you sure?”  
For answer, he brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “I’ll have you forever,” he whispered. Bridget’s eyes sparkled with delight as Colin offered his hand to her, but her smile was all for Mark, and he knew that neither of them would ever forget this night.  
\----------  
“That was absolutely one of the most unforgettable evenings of my entire life,” declared Bridget, kicking off her shoes and flopping unceremoniously onto the bed.  
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” said Mark, wasting no time stripping off his gloves and unwinding his neck cloth. “Enough of this Regency dress-up nonsense,” he exclaimed, heedlessly tossing the garments over a chair before turning toward Bridget and reaching, with tantalizing slowness, to unbutton his shirt collar, fixing her with a smoldering gaze that might have rivaled Colin Firth’s Darcyest stare.  
“What are you doing that for?” Bridget pouted. “Can’t I just admire the look for a few more minutes?”  
Ignoring her protest, Mark shrugged out of the shirt and let it drift to the floor as he crossed the room to her. “I thought we’d play a sort of game,” he explained. “Let’s call it… Undressing Mr Darcy. I was just… demonstrating the rules, in a manner of speaking.”

Bridget’s lips curved into a slow smile. “And if I win?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.  
Mark rested a hand on his hip. “Let’s just see how skilled of a player you are.”  
“Challenge accepted!” replied Bridget, lunging forward with surprising agility, Mark thought, given her limited range of movement in her current attire. She managed to tackle him to the ground with swift precision, though he had hardly put up a struggle.  
“Ha! I win!” Bridget announced triumphantly after making impressively short work of removing the remainder of Mark’s clothing.  
“Ah,” said Mark, “but that was just round 1. Round 1 earns you points for speed and surprise tactics; round 2, on the other hand, requires more precision. Allow me to demonstrate.” As he bent his head to kiss her, he slid his hands down her back, unfastening her gown with tantalizing delicacy and pausing between each fastening for a lingering kiss until finally the garment fell away. Intent on prolonging the foreplay, Mark exercised every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep himself from tearing away the undergarments beneath his fingers as he caught sight of Bridget’s soft, rosy flesh. Once finished, he lowered his head to her breast, teasing the nipple with his teeth; when Bridget released a sigh of pleasure, he glanced up from his task to see her eyes half-closed, an expression of sheer bliss on her face.  
“Full marks,” she murmured drowsily.  
“Shall we progress to round 3, then?” asked Mark.  
“Not if it involves altering my position,” said Bridget, “because I’m not sure I’m capable of movement at the moment.”  
Mark smiled. “Allow me, m’lady.” Getting to his feet, he bent and scooped his wife up in his arms to carry her into the bathroom, setting her on her feet inside the shower.  
“I think I prefer the wet without the shirt,” Bridget giggled as she stepped beneath the current of warm water and slid her hands over Mark’s chest.  
“Sh,” said Mark, placing a finger over her lips. “Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt a gentleman in the middle of spectacular shower sex?”  
“No, but now you mention it, I can see your point.”  
Tenderly Mark framed her face with his hands and lost himself in her eyes; to Hell with the waters of Bath, he thought. Those beautiful, blue eyes, overflowing with love, were all the restorative Mark needed.  
“And now,” he murmured, his lips hovering just a kiss away from her earlobe, “we fuck like rabbits, Mrs Darcy.”  
Bridget giggled. “I don't know if I can imagine Mr Darcy ever saying that.”  
“I suspect shower sex wasn’t exactly Jane Austen’s forte either,” Mark observed. “Fortunately, I’m well able to supply the deficiency.” And with that, he pulled her roughly against him and took her mouth with his in a slow, deep, possessive kiss that gathered momentum as he ran his hands over her back, soapy fingers sliding over smooth flesh. When his teeth grazed her lower lip, Bridget thrust her hips forward, grinding against his erection in a rhythm of such dizzying intensity that he gripped her shoulders more tightly when his legs threatened to give way. Tossing her wet hair out of her face, Bridget met his eyes, and electricity crackled in the space between them as they exchanged a long, smoldering look before Mark grasped her hips and drove himself into her with a cry of wild abandon. Bridget raked her nails down his back as he moved inside her, hot flesh melting until their bodies seemed to dissolve into one another. As Mark threw back his head, Bridget ran her tongue along the hollow of his throat; when he felt her teeth graze his skin, he pressed her against the wall, drowning in the deep pools of desire in her eyes. For what seemed like the first time in recent memory, they each climaxed at almost the same moment, their bodies joined in a synchronized rhythm of sensory familiarity at once comforting and exhilarating. At last, with a shuttering moan, Bridget collapsed against Mark’s chest, her head dropping onto his shoulder. Mark lost track of how long they stood locked in their embrace beneath the water; only when Bridget began to shiver did he raise his head and reach behind her to shut off the shower. Gently he traced his finger along the curve of her slightly bruised lips before bending to brush his own against them and sliding an arm around her waist to guide her from the shower. Only as he slid into bed beside her several minutes later did he again recall his son’s words to him several weeks previous, and he reached out to slip Bridget into his arms, pulling her to his chest.  
“This is good, Mark,“ she murmured, snuggling against him. “Sometimes I wish we had more time for this. I mean, the sex is great—bloody fantastic, actually—“  
“Says she in the midst of a post-coital cuddle,” Mark laughed, earning himself an elbow in the ribs from his wife.  
“I’m serious, Mark!”  
Mark drew her closer. “I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “You’re right. Although we do have spectacular sex.”  
Bridget bit her lip. “It’s just—well, since you’ve been doing so much more traveling again, I think I’ve realized how much I take you for granted. Sometimes, when you’re away, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, to check on the children, or get a drink of water, or something, and I’ll crawl back into bed and expect to feel you reach for me in your sleep, the way you do sometimes—like you’re afraid I’ve disappeared.”  
Mark nodded; he had lost count of how often, during his travels, he had lain awake regretting the last time he had fallen into bed so tired that he’d forgotten to tell Bridget he loved her.  
“Bridget,” he said finally, “There are few things I regret; I don’t believe we can go through our entire lives without a crewing at least one, but I don’t ever want to wake up one morning to find I regret not taking enough time to hold you. Promise me, Bridget, if I ever forget that, you’ll remind me.” Bridget snuggled into him. “I promise.”  
Mark smiled and wound his fingers through her hair. “Have you enjoyed yourself this week?” he asked.  
“I have, in spite of all the madness, and tonight—Mark, that was incredible. I still wish you’d tell me how you managed it.”  
“I didn’t really manage anything.”  
Bridget frowned. “Why can’t you just tell me? Does it have to do with—with Colin Firth?”  
At this, Mark chuckled. “Well, as it happens, originally he made me swear I wouldn’t tell you, but even he worked out that keeping it from you would be about as easy as keeping an elephant hidden in plain sight.”  
“Mark, are you going to tell me or not?” Bridget pouted.  
“It’s quite simple, really, and as Colin said, it all really came about due to a lucky coincidence. After your interview with him, he and I ran into one another, and we, well, got to chatting over a few drinks.”  
“Mark, you’re not serious. You met Colin Firth for drinks, and you didn’t tell me?”  
“Believe me, I was as surprised as you are; until that moment, he was the last man in the world I’d have expected—or wanted, if truth be told—to share a pint with.”  
Bridget laughed. “Because you were jealous.”  
“It’s pointless to deny it, ashamed as I am of it,” replied Mark. “But he made me see the absurdity of it all. We got on rather well, actually, but,” he continued at an impatient nudge from Bridget, “I found myself telling him about this week—about our anniversary—and wanting to find some way to make it truly memorable. I might have mentioned that you’d wondered what it might be like to open a ball, and Colin told me there might be a way.”  
“I’d have thought, considering why he’s here this week, they’d have asked him to do it, with Jennifer Ehle. It would have been a treat to see Lizzie and Darcy together again,” said Bridget with a wistful smile.  
“Well, that was the original plan, but as it turned out, Miss Ehle injured her ankle last week while shooting an action sequence for one of her upcoming films, and she didn’t think dancing on it would be particularly advisable while it’s still on the mend.”  
Bridget frowned. “I feel a bit guilty now.”  
“So did I, at first. It seemed a bit unfair to turn her misfortune into an opportunity, but”—he chuckled—“ Colin was actually quite relieved about the whole situation. He even wondered aloud whether she’d claimed the injury on purpose to provide him with a convenient escape, and I think he was only half-joking. The ball was the one part of the whole business he wasn’t particularly looking forward to, apparently. Had it not been a masked affair, I doubt we’d have been able to get away with the charade.”  
“I’m glad we did,” said Bridget. “So I guess you’re not jealous of Mr Darcy any more, then?”  
“It would seem ungrateful if I were,” said Mark.  
“I’m glad you came with me, Mark,” whispered Bridget, stroking his cheek. “Aside from anything else, I’d have bungled that interview if you hadn’t been there.”  
“I have to confess, when I first arrived, I wasn’t sure you truly needed me there,” said Mark, unable, despite all that had transpired, to suppress the hint of resentment in his tone.  
“What?” Bridget drew back in shock. “Mark, how could you think that?”  
Mark averted his eyes, feeling suddenly foolish, but there seemed nothing for it but to continue. “I walked in and saw you chatting with Colin, and you looked so comfortable—and confident.”  
“And sexy. Don’t forget sexy,” interrupted Bridget.  
“Obviously.”  
“What did you honestly think, Mark?”  
“I don’t know. I walked in, took one look at you, and I didn’t know whether to be proud of you or pissed off at Colin. After seeing how nervous you were about the whole business, I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I couldn’t bear the possibility of anyone doing or saying anything that might make you question yourself.”  
“You wanted to protect me from the big bad film star,” murmured Bridget, rubbing her hand up and down Mark’s arm.  
“Well, if you’re just going to mock me—“ Bridget silenced the rest of his protest with her kiss.  
“Sh, Mark,” she soothed. “Of course I’m not mocking you. It’s partly my fault; I did overreact a bit.”  
“Perhaps,” agreed Mark.  
“But Colin was really quite lovely. There I was, looking around for you, and practically having kittens because you weren’t there, and Colin just pulled me aside and started chatting to me, very calmly, completely unruffled by the possibility that I might make an absolute pig’s ear of the whole thing, given what happened the last time.”  
“But you didn’t,” said Mark, drawing her close again.  
“No, I didn’t. I probably would have, but right before we went on, Colin told me he’d seen you trying to catch my attention, and when I saw you, I just… knew it would be all right.” Mark recalled how Bridget’s eyes had brightened when Colin had leaned down to speak to her, and he felt guiltier than ever for the jealousy that had flared at the sight.  
“I know I overreacted,” he admitted. “I’m sorry for that.”  
“I understand why you did,” Bridget replied. “And it all worked out in the end.”  
“I know I haven’t always precisely been Mr Romance,” murmured Mark, lacing his fingers through Bridget’s and raising her hand to his lips. “But I want you to know, I always do my best to love you with everything I have.”  
Smiling, Bridget wound her arms around his neck and kissed him. “And nobody does it better.”

\---Three days later---

  
“I don’t believe you!” Mabel exclaimed defiantly, glaring at her brother across the table while Mark and Bridget looked on in mingled amusement and exasperation. After returning from Bath, they had decided to take the children to dinner for a family anniversary treat; The Ivy might ordinarily have been rather upscale for the children, but Billy and Mabel had, to their parents’ relief, behaved impeccably during dinner. Throughout the evening, Mark’s eyes had wandered across the table to survey his son and daughter with quiet pride—Billy, sturdy and straight-shouldered, looking slightly older than his nine years in his crisp shirt and dinner-jacket; Mabel in one of her favorite, pink frocks with a full, “sticky-outy” skirt, grinning broadly to display her recently lost tooth. The tooth, which Mabel had conveniently lost the morning her parents had returned home, had formed the subject of the squabble that broke out over dessert. While spending the week with Daniel, Mabel had expressed concern over the Tooth-Fairy’s ability to find her if she lost her tooth away from home. As a result, she had stalwartly refused to eat anything that might dislodge the tooth prematurely. Neither Mark nor Bridget had inquired of Daniel how he had handled this situation, though they suspected that his tendency to spoil the children had involved permitting his goddaughter to subsist on a diet of ice-cream for the duration of her stay with him. In a moment of elderly brother wisdom, Billy had apparently endeavored to convince his sister that Daniel was one of the Tooth-Fairy’s deputies—a notion that had sent Bridget into fits of hysterical laughter. Mabel, however, clearly hadn’t swallowed the story, and while Mark silently applauded Billy’s attempt at ingenuity to appease his sister, he thought an intervention was in order if they were to have any hope of salvaging the remainder of their evening together. Reluctantly abandoning his crème brulee in the interest of family diplomacy, Mark set down his dessert spoon and turned to his son.  
“Billy, why don’t you give it a rest?”  
“Fine.” Billy shrugged and returned to his sticky toffee pudding. “I was just trying to help.”  
“And I commend you for it,” said Mark, “but a word of advice, if you ever want to get ahead in life: learn to recognize when you’re fighting a losing battle.”  
“Daddy,” piped up Mabel, “does Uncle Daniel really work for the Tooth-Fairy?” Dear god; this was never going to end. Beside him, Bridget rolled her eyes in a ‘This whole evening was your idea’ expression. Looking at the trust in his daughter’s eyes, Mark battled with himself about the merits of truth over deception before deciding to deflect the question.  
“I think,” he said carefully, “you should ask Uncle Daniel the next time you see him.”  
“And make sure I’m there for that conversation, Mabel,” added Bridget. The family lapsed into silence for several minutes, until Mabel paused in the business of polishing off her ice-cream and jabbed the air with her finger, exclaiming, “Mummy, look!”  
“Mabel,” Bridget hissed, “remember what I told you about acting like a lady? Ladies don’t point.”  
“But Mummy!” Mabel insisted, bouncing up and down in her seat. “It’s that man you like on the telly—the one from that Pride and Prejudice movie.”  
“Sh, Mabel,” Bridget admonished, endeavoring with obvious restraint not to follow her daughter’s pointing finger. “Mark, check. I don’t want him to see me looking—in case, you know, it’s really him.” As Mark glanced in the direction Mabel was indicating, the man, who had been standing in conversation with the occupants of another table, turned to reveal that Mabel had indeed been correct. “Maybe if we’re very quiet, he won’t notice us,“ whispered Bridget, who appeared to be seriously contemplating the merits of fleeing the country.  
“I think you’re too late, Mum,” said Billy, and as the family watched in stunned silence, Colin approached.  
“It appears our paths were fated to cross yet again,” he said pleasantly. “Lovely to see you, Bridget, and Mark, of course—and who do we have here?” he added, noticing both children who, to Mark and Bridget’s relief, had become as still as statues.  
To spare Bridget the anxiety of answering, Mark took up the thread to make the introductions. “This is our son, Billy.” Both parents exchanged a smile as they observed Colin shaking hands with their son, and Mark thanked the powers above that he had seen fit to teach Billy the importance of a firm handshake.  
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Billy said shyly.  
“The pleasure is all mine,” replied Colin. “I’ve heard a lot about you; you’re quite talented on the bassoon, your mother tells me.” Billy grinned. “And who is this pretty young lady?” asked Colin, crouching to Mabel’s level. Mabel surveyed him timidly through her lashes.  
Displaying a surge of courage in the face of her daughter’s shyness, Bridget rose and moved around the table to crouch beside Colin. “It’s all right, Mabel,” she murmured.  
“Hello, Mabel,” said Colin, offering the little girl a reassuring smile.  
Mabel considered him quizzically, her mouth pulled down in a frown. Finally she said, “You look like the actor in that movie Mummy watches all the time—the one where your shirt gets all wet.”  
Colin chuckled. “Now I see the family resemblance,” he said to Bridget. “Nothing like a healthy diet of Austen to improve a girl’s mind.”  
Bridget blushed. “Well, you know—start them off early. BBC Drama—perfect foundation for a solid British education.”  
“Absolutely,” said Colin. “I quite agree.”  
“Mummy says the Mr Darcy on the telly is like Daddy,” piped up Mabel, “because he’s smart and handsome, and really grumpy sometimes.”  
“Thank you, Mabel,” Mark interjected, casting Colin an apologetic look.  
“Mummy says you’re smart and handsome too,” Mabel continued.  
“Mabel!” Bridget chided, her blush deepening.  
“So I’ve been told,” said Colin.  
“But you look different than the Mr Darcy man now,” observed Mabel. Mark and Bridget exchanged a helpless look; ever since Mabel had learned to talk, Mark had often compared her chatter to a waterfall—a powerful force of nature that it seemed useless to restrain. “I mean, you look like him, sort of,” Mabel explained, “except he’s… much younger.”  
“Mabel!” Mark and Bridget exclaimed in unison, but to their intense relief, Colin was gazing down at Mabel with an indulgent twinkle in his eye.  
“Well, yes,” he replied, reaching out to stroke her curls. “I must seem quite an ogre to a beautiful princess like you, Mabel.”  
“I’m really sorry,” said Bridget as Colin straightened and turned back to her. “You must think us all mad.”  
“On the contrary, you have a lovely family, Bridget. It’s been a pleasure meeting all of you,” he added to Mark and the children, “but I really must go. I only thought I’d pop over to say a quick hello.”  
“We’re awfully glad you did,” said Mark. Hands were shaken, goodbyes exchanged, and after laying a hand on Billy’s shoulder and patting Mabel’s cheek, with one last smile, Colin strode away.  
“He’s really not such a bad fellow,” observed Mark.  
“And we do have a pretty nice family,” said Bridget.  
“Mummy,” chirped Mabel, returning to her now almost-melted ice-cream, “did you marry Daddy because he reminds you of Mr Darcy?”  
“I’ve often wondered that myself, Mabel,” said Mark, turning a half-inquisitive, half-teasing look on his wife.  
Smiling, Bridget reached beneath the table and linked her fingers through Marks, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “No, Mabel. I married him because he’s the handsomest, kindest, best man I’ve ever met, and I love him more than all the Mr Darcys in the world put together.”  
“Well,” said Mark, pulling Bridget close and kissing her cheek, “that’s put me in my place." 

The End

Notes and Links

  
1\. To learn about the Jane Austen Center in Bath, [click here](http://www.janeausten.co.uk)  
2\. Some of the information in Bridget's interview with Colin firth I drew from actual interviews in which Colin talked about P and P, which you can read [here](http://Darcymaniac.wordpress.com/firth-on-Darcy/) and [here](http://Oocities.org/Hollywood/cinema/1280/pride_firth.html). The rest all comes from my imagination. I did recall reading a story about the Photoshopped wedding picture, but I never managed to track it down.  
3\. To see some of the costumes that inspired Mark and Bridget's Regency dress, see [here](http://www.marionmay.co.uk/id222.html) and [here](http://www.marionmay.co.uk/id191.html)  
4\. If you haven't read [Mr Darcy, Vampyre](http://www.amazon.com/Mr-Darcy-Vampyre-Amanda-Grange/dp/1402236972), you should. That is all. 


End file.
